XCOM Victorious - Operation: Diseased Phoenix
by Furnil
Summary: A year has passed since the Temple Ship exploded over Earth's skies. A group of ex-soldiers have moved into an apartment in central New York, and wonder if, after all the ways XCOM has changed them, they can ever be considered 'normal' again. Based on Firaxis Games' XCOM: Enemy Within


**Operation: Diseased Phoenix**

Paul Kelly kept telling himself that dating was easier than killing aliens. He pulled out his phone again, unsurprised to find no new messages. Romance, it seemed, was indeed like war, in that the waiting is the worst of it. Was this what people did, just hang around in a coffee shop pretending to look busy? He refused to fidget. People bustled all around him, raising static hackles on his skin. Paul had his back to a side wall, unconsciously glancing at the door every so often. Tables were poor cover – better to leap behind the counter, retreat into the back of the shop and set up positions there…

"Hi. Paul? I think?"

He was suddenly faced by a smiling young woman with shoulder length red-orange hair and what even Paul could tell was a well-developed sense of fashion. He jolted to his feet, scraping the chair legs against the floorboards.

"Hello. Yes. Please, take a seat."

"So, I'm Melody." The woman introduced herself. "I mean, you knew that, but formalities and all."

"Of course." Paul was far too aware of formalities, and quite how formal he looked standing stock straight as though ready for inspection. Somehow he sucked all the casual air from jeans and a blank t-shirt. He returned to his chair, Melody dragging off her scarf and bundling it in her lap. "And I'm Paul. You worked that out."

"Yeah." She smiled. "I'll just go grab a coffee, be _right_ back." Thus she abandoned him for a few minutes to check his phone and gaze about some more. The sheer amount of people nearby was scratching at his bioelectric senses, threatening to cloud his mind with white noise. Were there any not busy areas in New York? It was like trying to act normally with a really bad smell around.

Melody weaved her way back between the tables, plonking back down into her seat with a fresh coffee concoction. Paul's drink was black, and half gone already – he hated it cold.

"So, one thing I didn't expect," she leapt straight into conversation, "your accent. I cannot place it at all."

"Well, I'm Australian." He began to explain. "But I've spent a lot of time with relatives in England, and generally…travelling, y'know."

"Ooh. Been anywhere nice?" Mel asked over a sip.

"A little bit of everywhere, to be honest. A lot of time in Asia, but I've seen practically everything. It's mucked my voice up, bits from all over. I'm guessing from your voice you've spent a lot of time in the city."

"I've moved, once or twice." She protested. "Okay, a couple were just around the corner from the last place…but the city is just where it all happens, you know? I've seen plenty of the world on holidays."

"Inspiration for your art, I imagine?" Paul took a victory gulp.

"Look at you, mister remembering the webpage! Yes, quite. Though I'm taking a class on capturing movement at the moment, and there's this really tricky one I've been trying to get my head around, it's sketching a lava lamp, you know from like the seventies, with the bright green plasma-" –burns, the smell of vaporised blood, charred wood and brick dust, screams and screeches amid a cyberdisc humming- "-all in the angles, the little details, and - Paul? Are you alright?"

He found himself staring into her concerned face, one slick palm gripping the edge of the table, the other wrapped about his coffee mug, slightly burning the skin. He let go and pulled both back, forcing out a breath.

"Yeah. Sorry. Just a – something caught in my throat. Not feeling a hundred percent." Melody made a soft _aww_ ing sound and reached out to stroke his forearm, before snatching her hand back with a yelp.

"Jesus! You are conductive! That was the harshest electric shock in, like, ever. Ow!"

"Oh I am sorry." He blustered. "Are you alright?" Shit, the bioelectric skin – working overload with all these people nearby, it must have built up a charge. Paul tried to suppress his adrenal glands in the hope that it calmed his entire body down.

"Yeah no I'm fine, just y'know my fingers are tingling." She waggled her fingers at him to prove they still worked. "No harm done, but, _damn_."

"That happens to me a lot. I've been called a lightning rod by some of my friends." Yeah, attracting all the fire…

"Well, you're tall enough." Melody laughed, looking him up and down. "Though maybe not so thin." Paul could feel himself blushing. Since when did he do that?

* * *

An hour later Paul was walking back to his apartment, trying to ignore the wet heat of the city and his hunger pangs. He'd forgotten completely about buying another drink, or any food – well, 'forgotten'. He hadn't wanted to leave the table: the rest of the date had gone without a hitch, he thought. Not that he had much to go by, but time would tell.

He rounded a corner onto another busy street. He hadn't lived here before, but everything seemed pretty much normal. Humanity had reasserted its mundane dominance, and life went on. Some days Paul couldn't tell if he was a relic pulled into the future or something from the future dragged back into the past. It was the same for the rest of them. It was disconcerting being slightly other than human.

He took the elevator up to the level with only one door, and let himself in. He could already hear some petty argument rocking back and forth between two voices: one female and harsh, the other male a slurred. It was the former he caught the words of first.

"Watch TV and work out, that's all you do!"

"Yes, and what do you do? You only don't work out because you don't have to."

"Have you seen my abs?" The woman scoffed.

"Guys, guys." Paul protested, leaving the expansive living room and heading toward the source of the noise. "What is going on?" He found Marcel leaning his bulk on the doorjamb of Yvonne's room.

"I walked by," Marcel explained in his Polish drawl as Paul approached, "I said I am going to watch TV, would she like a drink or something. And she starts lecturing me!"

Yvonne stomped into view behind him, hair still tied up and drying, joints whirring, metal legs clanging on the floor.

"You do nothing else!" The Argentinean protested. "Anyway, doesn't matter now, lover boy's back!" She knocked Marcel out of the way with one round steel shoulder then grabbed Paul by the scruff of his shirt, mockingly dragging him back toward the living room. "Well? Details, man!"

"It was…fine." Paul said, practically rolling his eyes at her drama. Yvonne never did anything with subtlety, which almost made sense of the whole bionic limbs affair.

"Oh, fine is not good." Marcel chipped in, following them.

"No it was good! I liked it!"

"Ahh, I see." Yvonne said, finally releasing him to sit on one arm of a plush sofa. Marcel hopped over the back of the one next, settling into the cushions and instinctively reaching for the remote.

"What do you see?" He asked her.

"Lover boy here doesn't know what to say."

"Maybe he doesn't want to talk."

"Please, men love talking about their exploits with women."

"Not all of them!"

Paul sat between them as they bickered over him. Always the way. No point butting in, it's not as if anything important was happening…

…Except the crackling sensation of some swiftly approaching from the elevator.

"Someone's coming." Paul's voice cut through the chatter in a tone that put them all instinctively on guard. Marcel's nostrils flared, while Yvonne's limbs whirred and clicked as they adjusted in sympathy with her nerves. Paul simply sat and waited again, staring at the door. The hackles on his skin rose, tiny sparks bolting across the gooseflesh as he focussed his attention on the being making the last few steps to their apartment. He could feel it – organic, human-sized – and his compatriots on either side, and the fuzzy, static mess of the building's other tenants below. The being approached. All three stared at the door.

A stern rap came from the hardwood. Paul jolted from his position, feeling two pairs of eyes on his back. He grasped the circular doorknob, then twisted and yanked the door open, to find himself face to face with someone he had not really expected to see again.

"Central." Paul said, surprised. He saluted out of habit then immediately pulled his hand back, taking a step to one side to allow the man in. Central Officer Bradford entered, nodding to the ex-soldiers all staring at him. He wore a green pullover not unlike his old uniform, but obviously without the badge, and, as always, a communicator locked over one ear, microphone angled down toward his mouth.

"Good afternoon, boys and girls." He addressed all three of them, meeting each gaze evenly.

"It's been some time, sir." Paul said, his burst of anticipatory unease dying away.

"Indeed it has." Central replied. "How are you all?"

"Fine."

"Good!"

"Fucking bored."

Central smiled as he turned to the source of the profanity.

"Well Rodriguez, you could always take up a sport. I'm sure you would win."

"What, like boxing?" she laughed, raising one augmetic arm. "I don't think that'd be very fair."

"Well, there's always the Paralympics."

"Throwing spears? Running? No thanks. Besides, I'm not a cripple." With mock disgust she spun and strode away, heading back towards her room. Central turned to the men.

"So what are the rest of you up to?" His tone was casual, but his fixed gaze was not. Paul met it, raising one eyebrow in question.

"Kelly here got himself a date." Marcel grinned, but found the other two were busy staring intently at one another.

"Is that so?" As Central spoke, Paul mouthed 'what is it?' to him.

"Ah, yeah, it went…fine. Hope I'll see her again."

As Paul chatted, Central mouthed back: 'trouble'.

"Well that's great. Where are Kim and Mercier?"

"Out somewhere." Paul replied. "I'm not their CO."

"Not anymore, at least." Central smiled thinly. He raised one hand, running a finger along the communicator resting on his cheek. "Right well all's good here. Was just passing through, thought I'd pay a visit and check in on how you're doing." Paul kept his gaze, the suggestion taking hold that this was not all so innocent. "Do let me know if you get any news, or want to pass any messages on to your old comrades."

"Sure thing, boss." Marcel said.

"We'll let you know." Paul added.

Central nodded, a slight smile still on his lips, and gave Paul one last pointed look before leaving the apartment. As the door clicked shut behind him Marcel turned to the large plasma TV on the wall. Yvonne walked back out into the lounge, legs whirring softly.

"What did Bradford want?"

"Just a social call." Marcel called from the sofa as he flicked through the channels.

"No. He's checking on us because something's up." Paul said.

"What?!" Marcel twisted his thick neck to look over one shoulder.

"Something's up." Paul repeated. "Trouble, he mouthed to me. Since when does Central go out on social visits? And he was still wearing his communicator – I bet someone was listening in."

"When is Bradford not wearing that thing?" Marcel protested. "I've never seen him without it!"

"We've never seen him off duty, and I think that still applies. Someone was on the other end, listening to what we said. Why else would he stare at me silently, and get me to read his lips."

"Okay." Yvonne butted in, having been silently listening to the exchange. "So, what is going on? Why come and see us?"

"I don't know. Whatever it is, he was probably here to make sure it was nothing to do with us. That or…check our readiness in case we're needed."

"What kind of trouble would they need us for?" Marcel's blurry Polish accent became more pronounced as he raised his voice. "They said, we are free unless the project is reactivated, and I don't see any alien ships buzzing about, do you?"

"Whatever it is, it must be nearby." Kelly turned to Yvonne. "Have we heard anything from Kim and Liz recently?"

"I'll text them." She replied, striding back toward her room. Marcel sighed obviously, shooting Paul a look before returning to the TV, on which sleek, brightly-coloured cars raced to and fro. Paul left him there, heading toward the kitchen to make himself a tea. He leant against the marble counter, watching the brown strands twirling through the water. It was foolish to think they could escape their past. He'd always known something of XCOM would come back for him someday, but had suppressed it, chosen not to believe it: it was a truth he'd known but refused to accept. It was obvious from their ongoing pay, this lush apartment in the heart of the city – the sheer resources invested in all of their bodies. They would be called back if the project was needed again – but if that day came, it would come with an official communiqué, transport suddenly showing up to whisk them away to a new base, not a casual visit from a member of the command staff. Whatever was going on, it was under the radar, and anything under the radar by XCOM's standards was severely troubling.

He felt Yvonne approaching. She always conveyed an odd sensation – the warm, fuzzy static of organic material melded with the sharp tang of electronics. The only comparable feeling he knew was Floaters – but even then they had always felt different. They jangled his nerves, twisted, tortured beings that they were. Had been. He hoped none were left, the memory clawing at his stomach. She approached the kitchen, jolting a moment as she caught him staring at her.

"Shit, I'll never get used to you always knowing I'm coming, staring at me as I enter." She headed past him toward the fridge.

"Yeah, well I'd hear you even if I couldn't feel you." Paul joked, earning himself a light punch on the shoulder. He hardly felt it – the Argentinean had got used to her base augments over the past year, and no longer left bruises whenever she touched anyone. Most of the time. In public she wore ordinary clothes over her metal limbs, but while in the apartment she usually left the metal bare, wearing the bland greenish bodysuits all the MEC troopers had been given when their surgery was completed. She pulled a carton of orange juice from the fridge and swigged it straight.

"I can't believe you ship those teabag things all the way from the British Isles." She said, wiping her mouth on the neckline of her suit, nodding at Paul's drink.

"I told you, I got a taste for it, and the US stuff is atrocious. Besides, not like _I'm_ paying for it."

"True. But from the look of things, we might soon have to work for our paychecks." She took another gulp of the juice before slotting it back, pulling out a slice of processed cheese and folding it into her mouth.

"Maybe." Green plasma. Like 70's lava lamps. He dumped the sodden teabag in the bin and splashed some milk into the mug, giving the almost-empty bottle to Yvonne to return to the fridge once she stopped snacking. They'd need more soon – provided nothing…happened.

Paul made a quick sandwich and headed back to the living room, taking one of the side sofas and idly regarding the TV as Marcel watched it intently. The racecars didn't grab his attention. Paul thought about dinner, about his friends, about Melody, and about the look in Bradford's eyes. What trouble would they bring Central out for?

As the cars completed another of their many circuits about the track, Yvonne ran in, feet stomping on the floor, phone in hand.

"They found something."

* * *

"I cannot believe we are doing this." Marcel droned from the back of the trio.

"Quit the whining." Yvonne snapped. She had dressed up to avoid attracting gazes: baggy jeans over her legs and a coat that looked oversized covering her arms. There was nothing to conceal her steel hands: gloves tended to snag on the joints. Paul had spent an evening once picking wool out of her fingers with a needle.

"The ruined district, though. It is not a place I like to be.

"None of us do." Paul sympathised. "But Liz and Kim say it's a lead, and we want to figure this out, so tough luck." Marcel grumbled wordlessly then fell silent. A few passers-by gave odd looks to the bulky trio striding down the sidewalk, but the crowds had thinned out several blocks back and most simply wanted to get home, out of the humid air that pervaded the streets. Paul vaguely remembered some line about New York's air and frying goats. The pedestrians continued to lessen until the streets were completely deserted, and before them lay a tangled mess of concrete and steel.

The ruined district was the sort of place everybody tried to pretend didn't exist. For all that the TV and internet parroted about life having gone back to normal and humanity triumphing in the face of adversity, places like the ruined district served as reminders of the invasion, and everything that had been lost. Nobody wanted to remember that, so they pretended it didn't exist. At some point during the war, a UFO had been shot down – by XCOM, as it turned out – and crashed into the city. The wreck had ploughed through the district, driving through multi-storey buildings and leaving little but rubble in its wake. The project of rebuilding was deemed too expensive for its low priority so the ruined district remained, an unsightly lump in an ignored corner of the city where even the hobos were reluctant to go.

Elizabeth was standing by an orange-glowing streetlamp at the edge of the rubble, looking not dissimilar to it in her slim trousers and tightly-wrapped jacket. Her dark hair was pinned back, out of her eyes and exposing a soft but determined face.

"Kelly." She addressed Paul as they approached. Still hadn't dropped the habit of using his surname despite them being out of combat situations for over half a year – even if it did have a funny lilt in her French accent.

"Liz."

"Where's Kimja?" Marcel jumped in, and Paul had to restrain a smile. Won Shik Kim had been given the nickname 'ninja' early on, to which he had complained 'ninjas are Japanese, not Korean', and so 'Kimja' had evolved into being.

"He's around." Elizabeth replied. "Follow me." With that she pivoted on one heel and strode into the rubble beyond, the three new arrivals picking up the pace to keep up as she began to explain. "There was nothing on the news, so we ended up asking around. A load of cops headed down here this morning, cordoned off a big area, then packed up and left. Very fast. Nobody was allowed close though, there were some other official-looking guys here, but they've gone, so we started looking around, and…" She let it hang for a second, ducking under a diagonal metal beam then hopping over the stunted remains of a wall.

"Well?" Yvonne barked, struggling to keep up in the tangled rubble, her augmetic limbs less than supple.

"We found this." Liz announced, rounding a corner into had presumably once been an alleyway. Chunks of masonry and splintered wood coated the floor between two walls, both barely above head height, of which Liz directed their gazes to the right. There was a long black streak along the concrete, with a circular mark at one end, and tiny burns striking off all along the length. All sense of levity and humour, curiosity and comfort vanished from Paul's mind in gut-twisting recognition.

"Is that plasma?" Yvonne asked sharply.

"Laser burn." Paul muttered. He stepped up to the wall to inspect the charred stone.

"There is blood also." Kim's voice caught all, bar Liz, by surprise – they hadn't heard him approach. "There." He pointed with one arm to the just by Paul's feet, at a series of red smudges spattered about on the floor.

"Yvonne. Did you bring them?" Kelly asked quietly.

"Yes, sir." She replied. She dragged the side of her coat aside and pulled out a pistol in its holster, offering it to him. "One for each of us, all loaded, two spare clips. Was all I could fit." Paul racked the slide and checked the safety, then returned the gun to its holster and belted it about his waist. Somehow having a lethal weapon on hand made him feel less anxious. Prepared.

"So. Someone in New York has a laser weapon. And is using it." He announced.

"The site has not been cleared, but the body was removed. The police had an ambulance with them, I heard." Kim offered.

"Which explains why Central came to visit." Yvonne continued the reasoning. "Laser tech is strictly restricted; they probably had to check on us to make sure we hadn't nicked anything when we left."

"As if we could have." Marcel said, holding up his pistol. "This is nothing to XCOM weapon. We were screened half a dozen times." Yvonne rolled her eyes.

"Is it not possible the laser was made by the military here?" She asked. "We won the war, but they still fought in it, they'd have fragments and alloys and scientists of their own."

"Why would Central get involved if it were a military issue?" Liz pointed out. "If the government had rogue laser tech, they'd be dealing with it themselves."

"Okay." Kelly decided to end further speculation for the moment. "There must have been a reason. Now there are five of us let's spread out and search the place before it gets dark. Try to stay in sight, and keep your phones on."

"Aye aye." Liz said without delay, then span about a leapt over the two metres of wall behind them as though it were little higher than a railing. Kim vanished into the dulling evening light, mimetic skin already making him somewhat harder to make out, while Yvonne stripped off her jacket and tied it about her waist so her metal arms were free, then stomped off in a similar direction to the rest of the squad.

"Paul." Marcel had not moved. "What are we doing here?" It was a good question. Paul realised the slightest hint of danger had thrown him headfirst into action mode on instinct, attempting to tackle the problem head on. He hadn't thought for a moment about just letting it lie, letting it be someone else's problem. Just like old times.

"We're finding out what happened here." He offered, beginning to walk away but allowing the beefy Pole to follow.

"Yeah, but…why?"

Why indeed.

"Somebody died, and it's somehow tied to XCOM. Don't you feel like we have some duty to investigate?" They rounded a corner into a street of semi-ruined buildings.

"We are no longer XCOM." Marcel replied flatly. Paul thought of their flash apartment, the salaries all five of them still received. All the Meld in their bodies, and memories in their heads.

"Aren't we?" He asked, then turned aside. Paul tensed the dense muscles in his legs and leapt straight upward. Shattered windows and crumbling concrete flashed past as he flew up, momentum only beginning to fade once he hit the third storey of the building. He reached one hand out as he reached the apex of his jump, using the edge of the roof to steady himself as he rolled onto it, the surface hot from a day of sitting in the summer sun. Almost short. He was out of practice.

This all took roughly a second, Marcel still standing on the ground many metres below. Paul pushed himself to his feet, noting the rest of the city in the distance, shimmering towers turning orange as the sun began to set. He turned back to survey the ruined district, and spotted where he wanted to go. He pulled out his phone and prepared four texts.

'I'm headed to the UFO.'

* * *

Paul hadn't gone on the mission to clear this site when XCOM had shot the UFO down. Kim had, it turned out, but mentioned no details as to how the mission went. It was a medium class, and once cleared of aliens the XCOM engineers had done their thing, removing flight computers and power sources, salvaging what alloys and Elerium they could and essentially stealing anything that wasn't bolted down in the hope that it might yield some advantage.

What remained was a husk, a bare shell of what had once brought terror and death. Paul and Marcel entered through a gaping hole that had been the front door. Inside the ship was dark, the only light coming from outside as nothing remained inside but gunmetal grey walls and the odd dead console. Paul felt close and confined, as though the walls were closing in to suffocate him, but he could not tell if that was a product of his own mind or some after-echo of current running through the ship. Marcel seemed somewhat better, perhaps because his enhanced eyes had already reacted to the low light level. Even so, both men kept their hands near the pistols at their belts.

They passed around the left wing of the craft, lift coils on the wing blank and colourless, a dark gap where the power source had been ripped out. Sliding around the corner of another door, Paul was met with the darkness of the innermost section of the UFO, cockpit to his left and raised central platform to his right, and a horrible feeling. Close by was something other than ruin and wreckage. Several tings. Alive things. Blips of static, little points of pressure on his skin that he knew how to interpret to position and size. Human-like, at least.

"Company." He hissed at Marcel, simultaneously sliding behind a protruding bulkhead near the steps to the central segment. The Pole hesitated with confusion for a split second before barrelling into a covering position, drawing his pistol. Paul hauled out his own firearm, trying to count…three in the right wing section, two out near the rear…no, another one just a little behind those. The closer group of three were moving closer, entering from the right wing door space.

Paul glanced back over one shoulder. Marcel was about five metres behind and left, by the open door to the cockpit. Paul could now hear footsteps approaching his position – fast footsteps that rang out on the alloy floor. Shoes, perhaps, or armoured boots. They were close. Too close.

A cool breeze brushed through Kelly as he accepted his situation. A previously-held breath sighed out of him. He was in command. He stepped out.

Three human males were barely a metre away, with makeshift balaclavas and business-like attire. Kelly hammered the butt of his pistol into the leading man's head, sending him sprawling away, then aimed at the agent to his left and opened fire. Between the clothes, the sleek black rifles all three carried and the sheer fact of their presence poking around an old UFO, he was more than willing to ask questions later. He got two shots off before the third man rammed into his side, sending the third shot hopelessly wide as the two tumbled to the ground. Kelly writhed and struggled, jabbing his elbows back into the body atop him, but just as he felt himself getting some progress the man he had pistol-whipped joined in the effort of keeping him down, their sheer combined weight pressing him to the floor. The agent he had shot was lying a few feet away, the crimson pool spreading about him failing to conceal the green tattoo sleeve on his closest arm.

A bellowing cry snatched his attention as Marcel launched himself from cover, unwilling to shoot so near his comrade. Too late Kelly felt the other blips approaching, and tried to call out.

A single rifle shot cracked the air and Marcel jerked violently, twisting and falling to the ground. His outstretched arms broke the fall somewhat, but after his face hit the unnaturally cold floor it stayed there.

Kelly felt himself twisted about, lifted to his knees with his hands pinned behind his back and his face raised to meet the new arrivals. Two of the men were dressed just as the other agents, down to their short cropped hair and ballistic rifles in their hands, but it was the third that caught Kelly's attention. He had an orange scarf wound about his lower face and neck, and a bright chrome-like chestplate, although Kelly knew it wasn't made of any earthly alloy. His bare arms were sleeved with dull green tattoos, but what skin was visible beneath looked yellow and sickly, nearing translucence with the veins outstanding by almost a centimetre. He held a rifle similar to his companions but bulkier, with slats on either side that emanated soft red light. Kelly stared into his greenish eyes, acutely aware of the gun barrel pointed at his head by the agent he had injured.

The man turned to one of his grunts and emitted a familiar sound – the scratchy tones of a voice encoder. Kelly felt his muscles stiffen at the sound, grating at his nerves. He'd heard it too often accompanied with friends getting hurt. The man finally met his gaze.

"First police, then…the others. And now, what are we to make of you?" His voice was raspy and thin, but carried an edge of threat as though his laser rifle was not enough of a hint. "Somehow I doubt you are here by accident, considering your…assets." He glanced at Kelly's legs, rifle still held at the hip. They must have been watching since the squad entered the district. "But the question remains: what do you know?"

"I know what you are." Kelly spat. "EXALT."

"Ah." The operative settled his rifle to a more comfortable position, the glowing barrel pointed vaguely at Kelly's unarmoured chest. "So I presume you two are clandestine XCOM agents? I had guessed as much." Kelly imagined him sneering under the scarf.

"Yes, I know you very well." Kelly continued. "I was there when we took your HQ, and we razed it to the ground. I watched your banners burn as we flew away with all your baubles – which we sold for money we used to save the planet. EXALT is dead. You lost."

"I am alive." The operative threw one arm wide to gesture at his men. "EXALT will never die." His voice took on a dismissive tone, which only angered Kelly further. Even then he could feel more crackles – more contacts – coming in: one around the rear of the craft, one over the roof, and the other on the right wing. Yet even as despair grabbed his chest, Kelly noticed that the latter was recognisably sharp. Not entirely organic. Exactly three incoming. His mind pieced a little hope together.

"What are you doing here?" He threw out, desperate for a little more time. "What could you possibly achieve, poking about in the husk of an old raider?" The EXALT operative considered a moment before responding.

"We seek a cure." He bared his free arm, revealing the criss-cross of fleshy lumps and raised blood vessels, the yellow skin contorted and ruined. "We are dying, we who accepted the gifts with haste." Kelly felt the three static blips converging, drawing closer. "We went into hiding when we received the news of your barbarous acts, but this health issue has forced us to rise to the surface once more and take action." They were close now – in fact one blip was close enough to be inside the ship, but Kelly couldn't see anything, though he dared not move his gaze from the operative's eyeline for more than a moment. "We came here searching for something of the Newcomer's to help, and now we have found you."

Kelly spotted something on the wall behind the EXALT – a pistol, appearing to float in midair. Squinting at it, he could just barely see a slight shimmer where something – someone – was blending in with the matte grey of the craft. The crafty son of a bitch. He stared at where the eyes should be for a second, then flicked back to the EXALT, who continued his rant.

"Now we have you, and your unfortunate friend, we are going to take you back to our base, and tear out your enhanced organs and unravel their secrets. To heal ourselves. I wonder what else of the aliens is in you." The EXALT stared into Kelly's face, clearly enjoying the prospect of some revenge upon XCOM. Kelly could feel the other two blips were stationary now, I flanking positions. They were waiting for his order.

"I…have only one thing to say to you EXALT bastards." Colonel Kelly cleared his throat just to make sure he would be heard.

"Contact."

The EXALT agent pointing his rifle at Kelly's head toppled over, the wall behind him spattered with what remained of his brains. The Elite operative, to whom Kelly had been talking, managed to bring his laser rifle up by a few inches in response to the sound of the shot before meeting a similar fate, a neat hole punched through his cranium, unprotected by the alloy armour. Kelly rocked back into the agent pinning his hands, managing to get both feet flat on the floor then pushed with all his enhanced might. He launched into the air at a 45 degree angle, EXALT still on his back, flying a dozen metres into the raised heart of the UFO and slamming into the far wall. The EXALT grunted as all the air was violently forced from his lungs while Kelly fell back to the floor, rolling to preserve his ligaments from tearing. The winded agent had no chance to do the same, falling several metres onto his legs. One knee twisted and bent sideways, and the man sprawled on the floor, mouth agape in a silent, airless howl.

Kelly snatched the man's rifle where it had dropped and bolted into cover behind a short wall, where a console had once sat, but by then the fight was over. Four EXALT lay bleeding on the floor, the fifth convulsing in pain behind Kelly, while Yvonne strode in with the fifth in one raised hand, metal fingers a vice about his throat. Holding him aloft for one moment more, she tossed his unconscious body on top of the rest. Elizabeth strolled in from her position at the rear, pistol still covering the area, while Kim stood, stark nude, by the pile of EXALT bodies.

"You're naked." Paul told him, in case he hadn't realised.

"And you are alive." Kim responded. Liz pulled a pair of boxer shorts from a pocket and tossed them to the Korean. "The clothes did not camouflage. I stripped them off – mimetic skin makes me invisible." Kelly nodded in appreciation of the ingenuity then headed to where Marcel lay.

"How's he lookin'?" Yvonne called. Kelly rolled his friend onto his side, checking the wound, pulse, breathing.

"Looks like it lodged in his primary heart, there no exit wound, so he hasn't lost that much blood. His secondary heart is keeping him going, but he's passed out from the stress."

"So what do we do now?" Elizabeth asked. Kelly looked back over his shoulder at the squad.

"You still got Central's phone number?"

* * *

With a deafening whoosh of jet engines the craft lifted off, rising vertically for some metres before the pilot angled the jets and it began to speed off. Central waved it off, before turning to the ex-Colonel beside him.

"It's a good thing you called me." He said.

"You brought the skyranger out just for him?" Paul asked, nodding at the supersonic aircraft as it disappeared behind a tower block that gleamed from the night lights of the city.

"We figured it would be better Major Dudek be treated in an XCOM facility: by doctors who actually understood his…enhanced physiology. He was stable, though, so I'm sure you'll have him back in no time."

"Thank you." Paul managed to resist the urge to salute this time. "So, EXALT."

"Yes."

"I presume one Elite Operative and some cronies does not constitute the entire cell?"

"That seems unlikely." Central admitted.

"Just seems so…dickish." Paul sighed, not bothering to apologise for his language. "We spent, what, five months cleaning up every last alien we could find on the planet, and now these twats crop up again."

"Look, Kelly…" Central seemed hesitant, but Kelly could tell he'd finally baited a response. "The council wasn't too keen on the idea of you and your gang getting mixed up in this. In fact that wanted sure that you weren't, but for my part, you've done us a favour. Four less EXALT and two prisoners – not a luxury they usually allow us, even if they are low-level scrubs. If there's anything I can do for you…"

"Shade." Paul said, turning to meet the officer's eye. For once, he noticed, Central did not have his communicator on. "We want Shade."

"Kelly, you know the policy on Psi Operatives."

"I know that they're kept under lock and key."

"They're not prisoners. XCOM is politically neutral, governments are not. If they get their hands on alien materials, Elerium, Meld, even your bunch somehow, that's a finite resource and they can only do so much. But if they find out about psionics…it'll tilt the political power of the entire world. We don't think humanity at large is ready for that just yet. I'm sorry, Kelly. If you want we could arrange a meeting, perhaps if you come to pick up Dudek."

"Maybe." Paul sighed. "I just miss my friend. We all do. Just keep me informed if you can."

"Of course." Central, moved to go, himself looking confused as to the etiquette now, before pausing a moment. "You know, just for the record, the commander wanted you to be left in peace, though he said you might get involved on your own initiative."

"The commander's still with you?" Paul arched one eyebrow, to which Central shrugged.

"What's a commander with nothing to command?"

* * *

"You know, next time how about we graduate from coffee to…dinner, or a movie. Or both. Whatever people normally do."

"Actually, there is this play I've been eying up…" Melody let the sentence hang, batting her eyelids melodramatically.

"Alright, well text me the name and a date and I'll get right on it." Paul was rewarded with a smile.

"Yay! So anyway, what have you been up to this past week?"

"Ah just writing a report, nothing exciting, mostly been in the house."

"What, like a work report?" She asked.

"Well it's for somewhere I used to work, just some…loose ends I was tying up for them. How about you?"

"Ah, y'know, keeping on with the grind, never mind inspiration I just need time to actually do the art. So are you looking for a new job then?"

"They're still paying me for the last one." Paul paused as he was distracted by the prickly sensation of a new group of people entering the café behind him. "Honestly, something tells me I'll never quite get away from it. I'll always be one of them."


End file.
